


Child of the Heart

by wbss21



Series: Cry Verse [3]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wbss21/pseuds/wbss21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "He Doesn't Cry Anymore".  The day following Loki's showing up to Thor's rooms heavily intoxicated, and what transpires therein.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child of the Heart

It is shafts of sunlight breaking through the row of open windows from across the way which stir him to wakefulness, falling in steady beams across his face, warming his skin pleasantly. 

For long minutes, he allows himself simply to lie there and enjoy the sensation, letting his sleep hazed mind drift and wonder aimlessly, no real, tangible thoughts yet taking hold.

And as the seconds pass, and his mind sharpens gradually, he thinks dreamily of how his day will likely unfold. First a hearty breakfast, followed by morning training with Sif and the Warriors Three, and, if the opportunity presents itself, then perhaps he and his friends may find a journey to embark upon. Some as yet untamed beast to be hunted, or surely there is some long lost artifact to be retrieved from one of the Nine Realms.

Surely, if so, Loki would know of it, and then, perhaps, he may even convince his increasingly antisocial little brother to come along with…

He pauses in thought, all levity fleeing quickly from his mood as he remembers.

Loki…

And he looks to his right, the beginnings of what feels uncomfortably like real concern starting a slow bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

Of course, Loki isn’t there, and Thor’s concern solidifies, all sleepiness draining from his form as he sits quickly upright and tosses the covers away from himself.

He thinks worriedly of his brother’s state last night, and what surely it will be this morning, unused to drink as he is. And then he thinks of Loki’s more fragile constitution, and he is up out of the large bed and glancing around his chambers in fear driven hast.

There is no sign of Loki that he can see. No sleeping gown tossed on the floor, no evidence of the younger god’s own attire.

For a moment, Thor thinks Loki must have woken and slipped out, no doubt embarrassed with himself, as he knew his brother was often inclined to being when he allowed himself to slip from the most rigid of control.

But then he hears it.

A broken, retching sound, coming from beyond his sleeping quarters, and Thor needs hear nothing else to know it is Loki, and that he is likely in the washroom. 

He doesn’t hesitate, striding with purpose in the sounds direction.

He barely notices himself, and how he still wears yesterday’s garb. He had been too concerned over Loki and making certain he was taken care of to pay his own needs any heed.

When he reaches the door to the washroom, closed, he stops, and for a moment, he hesitates outside of it.

Again, he hears the sound of hard retching, and then what he thinks is, unmistakably, bile hitting water.

Thor swallows, before laying his hands against the doors frame, bowing his head.

“Loki?” He calls gently.

At first, there comes no reply, only silence back at him.

The thunder god opens his mouth to call again, and is cut short by the sound of his brother’s voice, drifting weakly through the wood, rough and exhausted.

“I am alright Thor.” He says, and it is as blatant an untruth as Thor has ever heard pass his lips.

“I have doubt of that.” Thor calls in return, and this time, he gets no answer.

“May I enter?” He asks after a long moment, already reaching for the doors handle.

“I am well Thor.” He hears Loki snap then. “Please, I would prefer if you would not…”

But Thor is having none of it, and without further delay, he takes hold the handle, and pushes the door open.

And he sees Loki, in a flurry of movement, turning hurriedly, almost desperately away from him, on his knees, slumped over the waste bowl.

Thor feels his stomach clench at the sight.

Gods, but Loki looks small.

He still wears one of Thor’s nightgowns, seeming nearly to swim in the article, it slipping precariously off of his right shoulder, exposing his pale, still slightly bruised skin, bony and fragile.

He is shaking, almost violently.

“Loki…” Thor begins, stepping forward, and Loki seems to curl in on himself, arms wrapping round his middle in what looks too much like a defensive position.

“Go away Thor.” He croaks out, and the thunderer nearly misses it with how soft his brother’s voice comes.

“Loki, you are ill.” Thor begins. “Let me help you.”

“I told you to go away!” The second Prince again snaps, voice coming out harsh and ragged this time, and Thor freezes in his tracks, brow furrowing as a deep frown lines his lips.

When did this begin, he wonders confusedly. When did Loki begin to grow so adverse to his, or anyone’s, offers of assistance? When did he begin to so viciously reject out held hands?

Thor doesn’t understand.

Loki used to be so incredibly affectionate. He used to seek out physical contact. 

There were times even when one would not have been remiss in calling Loki clingy, or even dependent, and Thor recalls moments when he had even lost his patience with his little brother, for so constantly wanting to be in his presence, wanting always to hold his hand, or find an embrace in his arms. Times when Thor himself would chastise the younger prince and tell him to stop pestering him, tell him to leave him be.

It had come to a point, Thor remembers, when it had grown almost embarrassing, most especially before his friends, when Loki would come searching for him, and practically be hanging off him, trailing along at his heels like some lost pup.

But, that had all begun to change, and Thor, for the life of him, cannot recall when the change started, or how.

He knows only that, now, it is a rare thing indeed for Loki to engage any sort of physical contact with, not just him, but anyone. That he cannot remember the last time he and his little brother embraced, and that any time in the more recent past, when Thor has tried, Loki had either turned away from him, or maneuvered the gesture into something distinctly less intimate.

Those times Thor had succeeded in pulling Loki into his arms, the second Prince, he now thinks, had been rigid and stiff, and slow to return the display, arms coming up awkward and hesitant, holding back only loosely.

Thor doesn’t understand, and he feels a pang of sadness at his sudden realization.

Loki has changed so much, it seems, in so short a time.

“Loki, please…” The thunder god again entreats, desperate. 

He is cut short when Loki’s entire frame seems at once to shutter, brutally, and he’s abruptly turning back, towards the bowl, arms gripping tight and trembling round it’s edges as, again, he begins to vomit, hard and ugly into it.

It is enough to spur the Crown Prince on the rest of the way. He steps quickly towards his little brother then, dropping down to his knees at his side, reaching out and taking gentle hold of Loki’s long, black hair, pulling it back and out of his face.

Again, Loki retches, vomiting hard, and Thor places a massive, wide palm against his back, rubbing in small, soothing circles. He can feel just how thin Loki is through the lightweight material of the gown, ribs obvious, and he frowns at it.

He knows Loki has a tendency towards neglecting himself at times.

Knows Loki is not so good at taking care of himself.

“It’s alright brother.” He says softly, trying to reassure. “It’s alright.”

The younger god quivers beneath his touch, shuttering. Again, he retches, a choked sort of gagging sound emitting from his lips as they pull back in a grimace, eyes clamped tight shut.

Only this time, nothing more than a frothy saliva comes, catching on his lower lip and hanging.

And Thor remembers so many times, when they both were children, and Loki, who had been so prone to sickness, so unlike the other Aesir children, in that way and so many others, would be bent over at the waist, bedridden and tiny and shivering in his illness, Thor sitting at his side when Mother could not be there, trying his best to sooth and comfort.

It is not so very different now, he thinks glumly, even as he acknowledges the rift which has seemingly of late come between them.

Eventually, the need to expel passes, and Loki grows still, breaths ragged and labored.

He turns his face away then, and Thor knows without needing to be told that Loki is overcome with shame.

Loki, who tries so hard at times to be the strongest of them, for all the taunts that he is the weakest.

Those same taunts which have led him, now, to this place.

Gradually, Thor feels the tension drain from his brother’s frame, Loki sagging limply down, his forearms rested along the bowls edge keeping him up, forehead pressed to those. The thunderer continues rubbing circles along his back, his other hand smoothing the smaller god’s hair back, over and over.

He recalls how the gesture had always used to bring a sense of calm to Loki, and he hopes now it does still.

Silence stretches between them a long while after, and Thor knows better than to push, when Loki is now allowing Thor to comfort him, knowing it has become an increasingly rare allowance.

Eventually the second Prince shifts, lifting his head.

“Let me sit back.” He says groggily, voice a rasped whisper. He presses his palms to the floor, beginning to scoot uneasily backwards, towards the wall. His face is strained, and Thor is sure Loki is fighting down his nausea still. 

He tries to help, taking hold of Loki underneath his arms and lifting him from the ground, shifting him the rest of the way to where he wants to be.

Loki can’t keep the scowl of annoyance from his face, but beyond that, he doesn’t struggle, and Thor exhales in mild relief once Loki is settled, back to the wall.

He watches as his head leans back, thunking softly, eyes closed. There is a thin sheen of sweat marring the mischief god’s forehead, and sweat clear through the thin garment covering his body. His legs splay out before him lazily, hair disheveled, and it strikes Thor, the wrongness of seeing Loki so unkempt, when usually he is so well put together, near obsessive about keeping clean.

There is another long stretch of quiet, and Thor shifts uncertainly, looking down at his hands as he rests on his haunches.

“Shall I go to Eir and fetch something for your queasiness?” He finally asks, glancing up to his younger brother.

Loki keeps his head rested against the wall, eyes still closed, and Thor hears a dry chuckle escape past his lips.

“Oh, then, what a sight I must make, hmm?” He says.

Thor frowns, and another moment of silence passes between them.

“I came to your chambers last night?” Loki finally says, eyes opening, half-lidded. There are heavy bruises surrounding them still, and weary lines, making him look so much older than he is. And Thor is reminded of how young Loki is then. Barely of age. Barely old enough to be considered a man. And yet he looks so worn. So weary already of life.

The thunder god nods.

“Aye.” He says softly.

And Loki’s lids slip back shut.

“I do not recall that.” He says tiredly. Another, long moment. “I do not recall much of anything of last night.” He admits.

“You were intoxicated.” Thor says. “Such things often affect the memory.”

And Loki laughs softly, but there is no real mirth in the sound.

“Indeed.” He says. “How foolish I must have seemed.”

“No more foolish than I often find myself.” Thor tries to comfort, and Loki only smiles lazily at that.

“You flatter me brother.” He replies. “But you know well as I you hold your liquor far more adeptly than I may ever hope to.”

Loki’s eyes are still closed, and Thor watches as his brow suddenly creases, heavy in obvious pain, a grimace twisting his fine boned features.

He lifts a hand weakly, clasping at his temple.

“Oh, by Odin’s beard, but my head aches.” He slurs slightly. Finally, his lids again lift, and the elder Prince can see Loki’s eyes, rimmed wet with unshed tears. “I know not how you do this with such regularity brother.” He says.

Thor laughs lightly.

“‘Tiss as mystery to me, well as you.” He says.

And Loki smiles weakly, eyes closing once more.

Thor regards him closely, an uneasy sadness taking his heart.

The too large nightgown still slips from the younger god’s shoulder, and there, as well along his forearms and face, Thor can see the remnants of the beating Loki had taken the night before.

He hesitates.

“Loki…” he finally forces himself.

Loki doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his lids again, or say anything, but Thor continues on anyway.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“Mmm.” Finally, Loki hums in acknowledgement. “Well enough,” he says. “considering.”

“Yes, but…” again, Thor hesitates, and it is enough for Loki’s eyes to slide back open, and look back at him with wary regard.

“Last night,” Thor presses forward. “you came to me in a beaten state.”

Immediately, he sees Loki’s entire frame stiffen, tension coiling tight through his thin body, face closing off in an unreadable mask.

It was clear to Thor then that Loki did not remember his confession.

“Did I?” He asks, voice suddenly flat, devoid of emotion.

Thor nods slowly.

“You confessed to me you were involved in a roe.” He goes on. “There was a group of commoners in the city, and they beat you…”

Abruptly, the lines of Loki’s face turn hard and irritated. He pushes himself up from leaning against the wall, sitting straight.

“It matters not.” He says, voice clipped and frustrated. “It was nothing.”

“Loki,” Thor presses. “I would know the faces of these men, so that they would be brought to justice for daring to assault their Prince.”

“It matters not.” Loki again says, voice hardening further. “I do not recall their faces in any event.”

“Loki.” Thor chastises, knowing it for the falsehood that it is.

“I do not.” Loki continues with the lie, stubbornly, staring at him with wet eyes, even as his voice remains steady a stone. “Thor, do not speak of this. Do not tell people of this.”

“Loki, I…”

“Do not!” Loki snaps, voice cracking, pitching slightly higher. And suddenly his desperation is clear. He is staring at the elder Prince with an almost pleading expression now. Begging. 

“… Please.” He at last finishes in nothing greater than a whisper, and his gaze slips away then, to the floor beneath them.

For a moment, Thor is uncertain what to do.

It is unwise, he knows, to let whoever these men were who dared attack his brother go unpunished. It is unwise, for it sends the message that they may get away with such crimes.

And yet, he understands too, for the shame it would bring Loki, were word to get out of his having been beaten silly by a group of commoner low lives. A warrior Prince of a warrior people.

Loki already suffers derision and words behind his back.

Slowly, Thor exhales, before finally, he nods.

“Very well.” He says. “I will leave it be, if that is what you wish.”

And Loki glances up at him, warily.

He nods slowly in return.

“It is.” He says at last. “… Thank you.”

Thor pushes himself to his feet, standing swift and strong.

“I will fetch you something for your nausea.” He says, and Loki looks up at him.

He smiles, weakly, and nods back.

And Thor turns to leave.

//

It is turning the corner out of the wing housing the royal quarters that he encounters Sif.

She smiles broadly at the sight of him, bowing her head in acknowledgement of his superior rank, though it is merely formality, for the two warriors have always regarded each other on equal terms, with acknowledgement of each others prowess and power.

“Good morrow, my Prince.” She says, standing straight and tall. And Thor smiles back at her.

He cannot help but admire her beauty, or the strength of her form.

Sif is of great stature, muscles clear and defined, even under the bulk of her armor, arms toned to rippling, wiry and long.

“Good morrow, Lady.” Thor bows his head to her in return.

Sif’s brow quirks as she regards him, looking at him, head to toe, and back again.

“Where takes you so swiftly this morning?” She finally asks, amusement clear in her voice, noticing the anxious energy throughout the demeanor of the Crown Prince.

“I am in need of a potion to remedy a bout of nausea.” Thor says without thinking, realizing only a moment after his mistake.

Sif’s smile widens further.

“Oh?” She asks, seeming delighted. “Did our valiant Prince at last find himself bested in the arena of merriment?” 

For a moment, Thor hesitates, unsure of how he should respond, recalling Loki’s plea to him to not tell a soul of what had happened.

But Thor has never been one adept at deception.

Not like his clever little brother.

And Sif is, beside Loki himself, possibly the thunderer’s most trusted confidant. 

He supposes it wouldn’t be a betrayal of his promise to Loki, were he simply to tell the warrior maiden of the second Prince’s intoxication the night previous.

He sighs, eyes slipping briefly down before moving again to her.

“It is not for me.” He says stiffly.

Sif’s eyes narrow briefly, almost suspiciously.

“Oh?” She again questions.

Thor shakes his head.

“Nay. ‘Tiss for my brother.” He answers softly.

There is a moment of incredulous silence, as Sif stares in wide eyed surprise at him.

And then, abruptly, she barks out in sharp laughter, Thor’s eyes meeting her face, a deep frown pulling at his lips.

“Loki!?” She exclaims, gasping through her mirth.

At once, Thor feels a burning of agitation at her reaction.

“‘Tiss no laughing matter, Sif.” He says firmly, arms crossing over his broad chest. “Loki is very ill.”

This seems only to draw greater mirth from the warrior maiden, bending her over at the waist as she slaps her knee.

“I sh-should think so!” She goes on, almost excitedly. “You mean to tell me that waifish, prude, stick in the mud brother of yours got himself drunk?” Another peel of laughter forces its way from her lips. “Oh, you shall have to tell me the tale of how such came to pass! Though,” she goes on, contemplatively. “he is so diminutive in size, his height notwithstanding, it is hardly a wonder he finds himself ill this morn. I should think he had to drink naught more than half a cask of wine to…”

“Sif.” Thor cuts her short, feeling the bubblings of anger rising in his belly, as his irritations are wont to turn.

Gradually, her laughter tapers off, and she stares at him, seemingly bemused.

Thor frowns at her, anger mixing with confusion now at her attitude.

He knows Sif is not well fond of Loki, at times, but for her to make light of him being unwell…

“I would ask you refrain from laughing thus at my brother’s predicament, and show the proper respect towards your second Prince.” He says, stiffly.

He is unused to chastising his friend so. And, he thinks, he would find no issue in her amusement, were it not at the expense of Loki’s ill health. Bor knows, he has taken in his fair share of laughter with Sif and the Warriors Three over Loki’s still clumsy wielding of sword or battle ax, or his propensity for holing himself away in the palace library for days at a stretch.

But when it comes to Loki’s well being, Thor finds no amusement in such things at all, and he finds himself unpleasantly shocked then that Sif would without seeming hesitation.

It is finally at seeing Thor’s own displeasure that the amusement seems to drain from her, her face falling flat.

“… My apologies, Thor.” She says after a moment, cocking her head slightly. “You will forgive my indecorum?”

Thor nods to her, bowing his head slightly.

“Of course.” He says, and Sif smiles tightly.

“Then I shall refrain from your further delay and allow you pursuit of your cause.” She adds, before stepping to the side and out of his path.

“My Lady.” Once more, Thor bows his head to her, before stepping forward and continuing on.

Staunchly, he ignores the disquieted feeling left in him from the encounter. He pays no mind to the voice in his head telling him he should not have revealed even that little information to Sif, nor the one which rankles at the way she had laughed at his little brother.

Sif he knows is not well fond of Loki, but nor is she malicious towards him. 

This Thor knows.

//

It is as he is stepping from the doors leading to Eir’s chambers of healing, carrying the potion for Loki in his hands, that he runs into Mother.

And it is immediately he notices her vaguely distressed expression. He pauses as she moves towards him, her eyes locked and questioning on his face.

“Thor…” she begins.

He bends his neck to her.

“Mother.” He greets. “Good morrow.”

But Frigga has no time for pleasantries this morning, it seems.

“Have you seen your brother?” She asks, not bothering to cover the tone of urgency in her voice.

Thor blinks, taken aback.

For a moment, he says nothing, and then he remembers the foolery of trying to deceive Mother. 

Not even Loki will try such.

“Aye.” He nods. “Are you in search of him?”

A momentary flash of relief passes through the All-Mother’s eyes, only to be replaced an instant later by the same concern.

“How fares he?” She asks worriedly. “Is he well?”

Again, Thor pauses, unsure, before slowly, he shakes his head.

“Nay, Mother. He came to my chambers last night, deeply intoxicated. He…”

Once more, he hesitates, and Frigga reaches out, hands grasping round his broad, thick shoulders.

“Mother?” The Crown Prince questions, brow furrowed.

“There is word your brother was seen last night in the city.” She says suddenly. “That he found trouble there.”

And Thor can’t keep the pain from his features then, face lining hard.

He can’t keep this from Mother.

His eyes slip to the floor, and he nods.

“Aye.” He says in a whisper.

“Thor, what happened?” She presses. “Tell me what has happened.”

He feels his hands clench to fists.

“I gave Loki my word I would not…”

“Thor.” The Queen cuts him short, and her tone allows for no argument.

The thunderer exhales loudly then, swallowing.

Loki will be angry at him, he knows. But Mother already is aware of something amiss, and there is no point in carrying on in this.

“He fell into a quarrel.” He at last relents, lifting his gaze to her, watching as Frigga’s brow lines in concern, her lips tugging into a frown. She watches him with close regard. “Some… men, in the city,” Thor goes on, reluctant. “they insulted his name and questioned his honor. They… he told me they accused him of being…” he pauses, hating for the word to even pass his lips. “of being argr, and thusly challenged him to prove himself not. He fought them without aid of his magic, three of them against him, and he…”

His voice trails off, shaking his head in dismay.

Frigga’s expression is one of pained sorrow, plain to see, and she shakes her head in turn.

“Oh, my boy…” she breathes in barely more than a whisper.

“I entreated him tell me who the men were Mother,” Thor says desperately. “but he refused to say, and begged in turn of me not to tell another of what had happened.”

Her eyes go to him, sharp and, at once, determined.

“Where is he now?” She asks.

“In my chambers.” He answers. “I was on my way to bring him this.” He lifts the container in his hands. “Loki is unused to drink, and he indulged far past his threshold last night. He is ill this morn.”

The Queen nods in understanding, placing a gentle hand on the muscular arm of her eldest child, holding her other out.

“I will go to him with it.” She says. “And I will speak to him.”

Thor frowns.

“He will be upset with me for telling you Mother.” He says. “I gave him my word I would not, and…”

She shakes her head.

“Do not worry yourself, darling.” She assures softly. “I will not reveal to him where I learned of it, and even if he suspects, which knowing your clever brother, he will, I will simply tell him it was I who forced you, and that Loki will understand.”

Thor smiles weakly at her, nodding.

“You have my trust Mother.” He says, handing her the container before grasping gently round her wrists. “Take care of him. Make certain he is well?”

She smiles in return.

“You know I shall.” She says.

“I fear his pride will one day be his ruin.” Thor says. “He is stubborn as I, only it takes shape in his refusal to ever admit when he needs help.”

Frigga reaches up, cupping the thunder god’s cheek in her palm.

“You are more wise than some would give you credit for, my son.” She says. “But Loki will take help from me, if from no one else. Do not trouble yourself.”

Thor reaches up, taking hold of his mother’s hand, holding it reverently as he bend his head and presses his lips to her knuckles.

He nods to her once more after straightening, an acknowledgement that he will comply with her advice, before striding past her, leaving her to take care of her younger son.

//

It is quiet when she enters the foyer of Thor’s chambers, her sharp eyes moving swift and attentive over the space as she steps farther into the rooms, searching for her boy.

Thor had told her of how he was ill from consuming too much alcohol the previous night, and logic would dictate that he was in the washroom, being sick.

But Frigga knew Loki too well.

She knew he would not linger in the place of his own shame for too long, and would likely have moved by then to a more comfortable and less obvious spot.

And so she walks passed the entry leading to the washroom, and farther in, to Thor’s bed chambers.

And there she spots him, seated in one of the many lounging chairs arranged throughout the space.

She frowns at the state of him, her worry piqued by the fact that he doesn’t seem aware of her own presence.

Loki, who is so normally hyper vigilant, and yet she can see he is oblivious, and it drives the point of just how unwell he is.

As does his presentation.

He is dressed in a sleeping gown some two times too big for him. One of Thor’s, she realizes. The garment is soaked through with his sweat, and his hair hangs disheveled and unruly about his shoulders and across his forehead.

And he is slouched down, where usually he presents perfect and straight backed posture. His legs are out in front on him, and his arm is draped, lazily across his eyes. 

His position speaks of utter exhaustion, and Frigga feels her throat tighten in dismay as she spots, beneath the sagging line of the sleeping gowns neck, his chest and collarbone, deeply bruised, contusions disappearing beneath the white, nearly transparent material. 

There is the same across his calves and, from what she can see of his thighs, there too. She knows if he takes his arm away, she will see his face also beaten.

A powerful desire takes her then, hands clenching threateningly tight around the container she holds, barely remembering in time to ease her grip before she breaks the thing into pieces.

She wants very much to find the men that did this to her baby and tear them limb from limb.

Oh, how sometimes she wishes she were not Queen, so that she might exact her revenge as she so often pines to do.

But now is not the time for her rage, and slowly, she releases her breath, forcing herself into calmness.

Loki needs her calm right now.

He needs comfort.

She straightens herself, and steps forward, making sure to rustle the fabrics of her gowns loudly enough for him to hear.

And he does.

His arm falls away, eyes taking a moment to focus and find her. And when they do, he cannot quite keep the look of surprise from his handsome features, before abruptly he straightens in his seat, and then stands, hands fidgeting and smoothing down his single article of clothing, and then pushing back his hair, uncertain, before he forces them down to his sides and he stands, rigid and still, looking to her.

She sees him swallow, nervous, before he breaths out in a raspy and cracked voice…

“Mother.”

It takes all of her strength to hold back her own tears at the sight of him. 

His eyes are bruised, badly, as she suspected they would be. But the suspicion makes the knowledge no less painful. And there are similar, lesser abrasions along his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose.

Oh, but he did take a beating.

Her beautiful, sweet, fragile boy.

Who would dare…

But no, she reminds herself, no. She must remain calm now, for his sake.

She can see he is mortified by her seeing him now. He keeps his eyes on her, an attempt to cover his own shame. But she can see how he struggles for it. Can see by the nervous tension running through his frame, and the slight tremor she can see in his hands, that he wants desperately to turn and flee from her sight.

She knows it is only out of respect for her that he does not.

She knows too he would have thrown a glamour over himself to hide from her if not for the fact she has already seen him.

“Loki,” she breathes, and she cannot hold back any longer. She moves forward the rest of the way, arms opening before she’s even reached him and enveloping him in an embrace when she does, pulling him against her tightly, her hand coming to the back of his head and bringing his face to her shoulder. “my child.” She says.

Loki is stiff in her arms, and at first, he stands unmoving, as though unsure of what to do, before she feels him lift his arms, hesitantly, and he embraces her back, awkward and almost wary.

She holds him for several seconds longer, before finally she lets him go, and steps back, one hand still grasping gently round his bony wrist.

It shocks her, sometimes, how small Loki is.

He is tall, of course. Only a small measure shorter than Thor. But he is so very thin. Maybe only half so broad as his elder brother, and so much lighter in weight. Where Thor is all thick and powerful muscle, with thick, powerful hands which threatened an ability to hold any opponent immobile, Loki is as a reed, almost waifish in appearance, all long, lean muscle and sleek lines. He is not so weak as some have made the mistake of believing, to their own detriment. But in contrast to his brother, the difference is, at times, shocking.

Frigga remembers how she had been so worried, when Loki was a child, that upon reaching adolescence, he would shoot up in height well passed what would be normal for any, male Aesir, and that he would grow similarly much too broad and large. She feared his true heritage would be found out then. That they all would realize he was not Aesir, but Jotun, and then they would turn on him and it would no longer be safe for her youngest child in the home he grew up in.

But it never came to pass. Loki’s growth had been almost painfully slow in coming, lagging behind the other children his age.

He was always the smallest one among any group, it seemed. Often even the girls were bigger. 

And, as is so often the way, he was targeted for his diminutive size, bullied and beat up, because it was easier for the others to hurt him then those their own size.

Some things, it seems, never change.

Frigga then had almost prayed for Loki to grow into his giant’s heritage, if only so that he might better be able to defend himself, and no longer have to suffer the cruelty of children.

But he never did, and as the years passed, Frigga understood it would not happen for her youngest. That he was well and truly born a runt, and that aspect of him would forever remain. He would never be bigger or stronger than he was now.

And yet, to her, he is perfection.

She would never wish for him to be other.

“Sweet boy,” she says, reaching up and cupping his cheek in her palm, careful not to aggravate the bruises.

Loki’s eyes, at last, flit down, and she can feel the slight warmth which spreads over his face in embarrassment. She sees him swallow again.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and she feels her heart break.

“Loki, no.” She says. “Do not do that. Do not.”

Oh, gods, but how he blames himself always.

How this, above all else, devastates her about her youngest son.

“I did not want you to see.” He says, and there is a hitch of desperation in his voice. “I did not…”

“Loki,” she stops him gently. He won’t lift his eyes to her. She reaches down, taking hold of his wrist. “you need to rest. Come.” She instructs, and Loki follows without protest as she moves with him towards Thor’s bed.

It remains unmade from earlier that morning, and easily she guides him to lye down on it, waiting until he is comfortably along the mattress before she arranges the covers over him, up to his chest.

He watches her now. Watches her movement. And it strikes her heavily, how very much a child Loki still is. 

He is so vastly, even frighteningly intelligent. And a capable warrior. And the most skilled sorcerer Asgard has known since Odin All-Father himself.

But he is still so much a boy, and all her mother’s instincts course violent and hard through Frigga’s veins for him.

She lowers herself onto the mattresses edge, bringing her hand up and pushing the locks of his damp hair back from his face. She smiles softly at him, and fights not to cry as she watches tears fill his own eyes. Watches them slip free and down his cheeks as he closes his lids and turns his face from her.

“Thor told you then?” He whispers. 

There is no anger in his voice. Only a quiet sort of resignation.

“He did.” She answers truthfully. “I made him do so.”

Again, she sees Loki’s throat work as he swallows, and he nods weakly.

“Here.” She goes on quietly, uncorking the container she’d brought, bringing it forward. “This will do your sickness well. Can you sit up for me?”

He does so without comment, struggling more than he should to push himself up, falling back against the headboard once there, as though entirely taxed from the simple effort of it.

She holds the container out to him, and he lifts a still vaguely trembling hand to take it from her, bringing it gingerly to his lips and sipping at it carefully.

The potion is bitter and foul in taste, and Loki cannot quite keep the disgust from his features at it, small lines forming round his mouth as he forces it down. But force it he does, finishing it quickly and handing the now empty container back.

The Queen takes it and places it soundlessly onto a nightstand at the bed’s side.

“… Thank you.” Loki says, voice still worn, and Frigga smiles tightly, nodding.

“Lye back down now.” She instructs, and the second Prince happily complies, letting himself slump until his head is once more rested against the pillow. 

“You will feel better soon.” She promises, again taking up smoothing his hair back.

Quietly, she conjures a bowl of cool water and a cloth, setting the bowl along the same nightstand, dipping the cloth into its contents and ringing it before taking it to her son’s too warm forehead and pressing it gently there.

Loki’s eyes slip closed in relief, his frame relaxing with it as he breathes out.

She watches him as she continues to run the cloth against his skin, dabbing it along his cheeks, wiping the drying tears from them.

And she thinks on the wrongness of it, that she should feel such despairing sadness when she gazes upon her youngest child.

Her heart hurts.

She doesn’t understand why he should suffer so.

Why his life began with suffering and aloneness. Why it continues for him as it does.

He is a good boy.

He is a good son.

A good brother.

A good friend… if ever any would afford him the chance to prove so.

And she fears.

She fears for him, if he should continue as he is.

She fears what will become of her baby boy, with his sensitive heart and stubborn pride and terror of what others would do with him if they knew how deeply he felt.

He is pulling away, even from her. And she fears.

She should ask him about the men who hurt him. She should ask him, so that they can be found and face justice for their crime.

But she looks down at him, and sees now a moment of peace for him.

It is fleeting, she knows. It will not last.

But she cannot bring herself to take it from him while it does.

And so she will sit with him until he sleeps. 

And she will pray to whatever being it is that gods pray to that her comfort will be enough to stifle the tide of cruelty her son, her Loki, pushes so vainly back against every day of his life.

She prays it will be enough to save him.

For no other deserves more that than her child of magic and wit and iceborn, beautiful fire.


End file.
